On That Dark and Fateful Night
by Troubled Serenity
Summary: House gives up being clean of Vicodin and gets high...we get to see what happens and the aftermath of his first high since Cuddy was sick...WARNING!MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS!
1. Chapter 1

****Okay, so here's a new story….It's a bit twisted….there's maybe one or two things in this entire story that's even close to fluffy…Soo….Here ya go…Please read and review…Thanks!** Kat**

Clean. That one word ran itself through House's head as though it was a broken record. Tomorrow he'd be clean of pain medication for a year. House laughed, he wasn't

going to make it that long. Bitterly, he rubbed his leg; it had been paining him worse than normal lately. He knew it was a psychological pain, but, hey, pain was pain no

matter how you looked at it. Pain at Cuddy's recent wedding. Pain at Wilson's stupidly accurate predictions about him. Pain at his patient's death - A sixteen year old girl

had come in with fatigue, headaches, a fever, chills, and muscle pain. Then after a week or so she developed swollen lymph nodes, leading the team to suspect lymphoma,

only coming back negative. Week after week brought a new symptom, such as fainting, palpitations, paralysis in her face, poor memory, severe fatigue, inflammation in her

joints, and neurologic changes along with much else. Taub, a bald, yet conflicted, smart one, suspected Lyme disease when there was no rash.

They had guessed and guessed, wrong every time, each treatment making her worse, until she died. In the autopsy House found a bumpy, red skin rash on the back of

her ear, hidden by her hair and in a general location doctors, the idiots, never checked. It had been Lyme. Taub was right, yet no one believed him. - House shook his

head, strictly believing that the pain in his leg was causing him to be less like himself, unable to think clearly. He leaned against the cold porcelain of the bath-tub, where

he had once tried to perform surgery on himself, and picked up a yellow pill bottle, read the description...

_House, Gregory  
>HydrocodoneAcetaminophen  
>Take one or two every two to four hours<br>_

...and laughed. He dumped out the entire bottle's contents on his granite tile floor. About a hundred white pills spilled out. He took four of them in his shaking hand and

popped them in his mouth, swallowing the bitter pills without water. House leaned his aching, heavy head against the lip of the tub and closed his eyes, waiting for the

Vicodin to kick in. He hadn't taken any in a year, so it shouldn't take too long.

He was right, to his pleasure. Fifteen minutes later he was free of pain and as high as a kite. House stood up, feeling dominant and powerful, but wobbly on his feet, like

he was on a boat on rough seas instead of his bathroom floor covered in pills. The walls kept sliding out of his sight, runny and slippery, like an egg white. He found this

hilarious! But, underneath his humor, there was an underlying emotion. House, too high to comprehend anything, couldn't pinpoint it, though it made him pissed. Being

angry pissed him off! He was high dammit! Nothing should make him angry! In his rage there were images floating through his head. Images of Wilson, all-knowing and

snobbish. Taub, the evil, brilliant minion. Thirteen, the female version of him, self-destructive. Foreman, oh hail, almighty Foreman. Chase and Cameron, the blonde couple,

too naive for their own good. Then there was a picture of Cuddy, laughing at his pain, mocking him, kissing her husband, Lucas. Oh how it pissed him off! The anger forced

him to lean over the sink, two feet from him, and vomit. He wiped his mouth with his hand and stumbled out of his bathroom, no limp to be seen. Within seconds he

realized that there were weird sounds vibrating in his ears, like colors. Blue rang in his ears like a bell. Red and yellow, a tag team, played back and forth, far and tinny,

like a harpsichord. Green pinged to the beat, a metal triangle. It wasn't unpleasant, as they made great music together, so it didn't bother him as much.

****Ok thanks for reading! I promise for an update soon…as soon as a few people read and/or review it….Thanks!**Kat**


	2. Chapter 2

****Okay here's Chapter two….Please read….! Thanks!** Kat**

The distraction of the musical colors had dissipated his anger and rage for an instant, just an instant. But the moment it was back he headed for his kitchen, kicking his

piano when he passed it. That should've hurt like hell, but he was so high it didn't...and wouldn't til morning. In his modern kitchen House went for the knife drawer,

opened it, and pulled out a vintage .38/200 caliber Enfield No. 2 Mk I revolver, used in the 1930's and 60's. He always loved antique things like this. He loaded it with six

bullets from an ammo box right beside the knives, then tucked it into the elastic of his boxers. In his hand he held six more. After thinking through his brilliant, drug-

induced, plan he stumbled drunkenly toward the front door, taking a last look around the place he had called home for over two years, just in case he wouldn't be able to

come back, pulled on his black trench coat, wrapped his gray scarf around his neck, yanked on a snug, brown beanie hat, and tucked a black fedora on top, pulling it over

his eyes. House dropped the six bullets from his hand and into a deep pocket over his thigh, grabbed the car keys and left, slamming the door behind him.

A cold wind brushed by him, but it didn't affect him. He felt it's coolness, yet his skin neglected to form goose bumps and he didn't shiver, like he normally would've. God,

he loved being high. House unlocked the car and drove the few miles to Wilson's house, a big brick Victorian thing with white pillars. He pulled in around the cul-de-sac in

front of his friend's house and cut the engine. All the houses around him were either up for sale or no one was home. Next to being high, Fridays were the best ever.

Nobody was ever home, except depressing people, like Wilson for example. House stepped out of his car, one he rarely ever drove as he normally took his motorcycle, and

walked up the concrete to the big, oak front door. Looking up he saw a few lights on. Good, Wilson was up. Probably reading. He stuck his hand in his boxers - that

sounded so perverted and he grinned - and pulled out his ancient revolver, stuffing it in one of the pockets, where it clinked against his keys and the extra bullets. Trying

his best to look not high, House rung the doorbell, an annoying rhythm instead of one bell. He waited, shuffling his feet, pacing a few steps, chewing his nails. The high

feeling left him with boundless energy, just waiting to be expended. Finally the door opened to reveal a tired, wilted, Wilson. Reading glasses pushed to the top of his

head. All he was wearing was a white tee shirt and plaid boxers, bed clothes.

"House. It's three in the morning. What do you want?" Wilson sighed, opening the door fully and leaning against the door frame.

"Eggs. I ran out and I wanted scrambled eggs with cheese." House said, lying expertly, even if it was a stupid one.

"So you came out to my house...instead of asking a neighbor? And where are your shoes...and your cane?" Wilson speculated, blinking furiously a few times.

"The neighbors don't like me. My shoes?" House asked in surprise, looking down. This whole time he hadn't realized that there were no Nikes on his feet. "I thought I had

some on." He murmured to himself.

"House?" Wilson scolded. House looked up. "Are you high?"

He contemplated his answer for a moment, finally coming up with, "high as a kite." Wilson groaned and turned around, leaving the door open, expecting House to follow

him. He did, closing the door softly behind him. He reached his hand into his pocket and slowly pulled out his revolver, pulling back the notch in the back. At the click Wilson

turned around, immediately putting his hands up.

"House. Put the gun down. The drugs are messing with your mind." Wilson said shakily, trying to reason with House, who didn't listen. House shifted his forefinger to the

trigger.

"Probably. But, you and the others have messed with my mind more than the drugs have." House said calmly, threateningly.

"What others?" Wilson asked. In response House pulled the trigger and a red stain spread across Wilson's white tee shirt, right over his heart. He fell to the floor, dead.

House calmly spun the barrel of the revolver to the next shot, tucked the gun into his pocket, turned off all the lights, upstairs and down, drew closed every curtain in the

house, then left, locking the door behind him.

****Okay well ..! REVIEW I'M BEGGING YOU! Thanks for reading!** Kat**


	3. Chapter 3

***Okay…Here's chapter 3 of this twisted story…..Please read…..and review….that's always appreciated….even though NO ONE HAS YET….-_-….Oh and I do not **

**own House M.D. or it's characters….* -Kat**

House got into his car and left for Taub's house...or the one he was sharing with Foreman. He pulled up in front of a secluded house, white and one story, but big. There

were no neighbors nearby. Not even a dog house. In the silence the musical colors rang in his ears again. He hummed along to the tune, oblivious to the magnitude of

what he just did and what he was about to do. At the front door, a red metal thing, House knocked instead of ringing the doorbell. With the noise in his ears, he didn't

think he could take anymore ringing of any kind. A sleepy, irritated Taub opened the door.

"House? What the hell do you want this early? Are you barefoot? Where's your cane?" For being just woken up, Taub was a goddamn chatterbox.

"Sugar. I wanted to bake a cake, insomnia-thingy, but I have no sugar in my cabinets. Neither does Wilson. My neighbors don't like me. I wonder why? Hmm...Interesting."

House rambled on and on, giving up on his charade of not being high.

"Are you high?" Taub asked, looking at House's dilated pupils, almost taking up his entire iris.

"High as a kite." House answered proudly, puffing out his chest a bit.

"Ugh come in." Taub groaned, rubbing his eyes and mumbling curses and insults under his breath. House walked in and shut the door quietly behind him. He reached into

his pocket and pulled out his gun, pointed it at Taub's back, pulled back the kickback and pulled the trigger. A crimson stain spreading over him. He fell to the floor, dead.

Foreman probably heard that. Unless he's an insanely heavy sleeper. House didn't think the zombies could've slept through that. He ran to the bedroom and, surprisingly,

saw Foreman still sound asleep. House walked over, pressed the gun to Forman's head and shot, brain matter spewing everywhere, miraculously missing House, who

now thought he was invincible, managing to convince even his rational side. House watched as Forman's breathing caught, sputtered, then stopped completely. He left

the same way he left Wilson's. Turning off all the lights, closing all curtains, and locking the door on his way out.

The next three killings, Thirteen, Cameron, and Chase, went smoothly. When Thirteen answered the door he didn't even let her finish her questions before he pushed her

inside, shut the door, and shot her straight through the chest. He left in the same manner he left the others. With Cameron and Chase it was easy. No one answered his

knocks, so he picked their lock and went to their bedroom. They were huddled together on the queen bed. House snorted. He knew they were still together, despite

claims that they weren't even living near each other. He shot each of them in the head, then left in the same way. Complete darkness, no way the outside world could see

inside, locked door behind him. He didn't bother filling the revolver with another bullet. Lucas and Rachel were out of town for the week, some father-daughter thing in

New York. House pulled up in front of a modest brick house with a black metal front porch. When he knocked on the door, a wide awake Cuddy answered. There were

dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept in days. House looked at her for a moment, slowly advancing on her until they were both inside. House locked the door

behind him.

"House what are you doing here? Where is your cane?" She asked tiredly. She looked so hot in an oversized sweatshirt falling over one shoulder and Sophie shorts. He

was still high, but not as much and could sort of think clearly, although he would still remember none of this fateful night in the morning. House leaned in and kissed

Cuddy. She hesitated, and then kissed him back fiercely. House lifted her off of her feet and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He always knew she never stopped

loving him.

***Okay…this is the end of Chapter 3…..Let me tell you now….it doesn't get better….NO FLUFF! Please review….I haven't a clue why I keep asking this as no one has **

**yet…Thanks for reading…*-Kat**


	4. Chapter 4

***Okay here's the final chapter...I'm sorry if you don't like it. Well...no I'm not. I'm sorry I'm not sorry. There ha! * -Kat**

Setting Cuddy down on her feet his hands slid up to her neck. Her smooth, pristine neck. His long, musician's hands

slowly tightened around her neck until she stopped breathing and he felt her heart stop. House dropped her to the

floor and proceeded to tour the house, turning off all the lights, closing all curtains, then locking the door behind him

as he left. House went home, burned his coat, hats, scarf, gun, and ammo in his fireplace, vomited several times as

the high wore off, then went to sleep on the kitchen floor.

House woke up with a major migraine and a shooting pain in his leg from sleeping on the kitchen tile. Popping some

ibuprofen and downing a cup or two of coffee, House went to his couch to call Wilson about having no memory from

last night. Maybe he would know. It rang and rang for a full five minutes before House hung up. Well, apparently

Wilson was ignoring him. House wondered what he had done that was so bad that Wilson couldn't talk to him about

it.

So, House then tried Foreman, then Taub, then Cameron and Chase, and then finally, as a last resort, Cuddy. No

one answered. Frustrated, House turned on the TV and watched the news. A snobby reporter was talking about the

murders of seven people last night. House didn't particularly care until their names and faces popped up...James

Wilson, Chris Taub, Eric Foreman, Remy Hadley, Robert Chase, Allison Cameron, and Lisa Cuddy. House leaned over

and clutched at his head in pain, spilling the dark brown coffee all over his new carpet., burning his feet. Flashbacks

from last night came to him in a rush, overwhelming his brain. Memories of a gun, kissing Cuddy before watching the

life slip from her eyes.

A memory from last night stuck itself in the front of his mind, burned there. As Thirteen lay on her floor, just before

she died, she whispered a broken thank you and smiled. She would've ended up killing herself anyway. House now

remembered the promise he had made her when he brought her out of prison. He had promised to euthanize her

when her Huntington's became too much. Well, there's one good thing.

With tear-filled eyes he went to his bedroom and pulled a belt from his closet, tying one around the bars of the vent

on the ceiling and slipping his head through the loop at the end. House looked up, moved to the edge of his large

bed, the place where he and Cuddy proved their love to each other again and again, and jumped.

***Okay thanks for reading...if you have...Okay well please review. I don't care if you didn't like it so don't bother to review if that's what you're reviewing about. Okay thanks..kinda. *-Kat**


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